Don't make people into heroes
by scribblingnellie
Summary: Sherlock's gone and Molly and Greg are trying to find their way through the mess he's left behind. With John, Mrs Hudson and a little glimpse of Sherlock. Friendship with romantic possibilities! My two Sherlock faves and life post-Reichenbach.
1. Sherlock

Hiding in plain sight was easy enough these days. What was another figure dressed in a long navy coat in London now; they were everywhere, crime scenes, supermarkets, squares.

_I believe in Sherlock Holmes_

He'd seen the graffiti under bridges, the homemade posters plastered to derelict walls, the rough stickers on lamp-posts.

Sherlock took to watching his friends. Being where they were, just off in the shadows, in doorways, from the middle of a crowd. If their eyes lingered that second too long, he simply melted away. It was safer; it had to be that way.

_I believe in Sherlock Holmes_

They shouldn't. He wasn't a hero. There were better people out there; and their lives depended upon him staying dead. 


	2. I believe in Molly Hooper

The door of 221B had always felt imposing, even if he'd been the one to ask her to pop round with her latest body part for him. But Sherlock was gone, and now Molly was here for someone else.

"Molly dear, there you are."

Mrs Hudson enveloped her in one of her generous hugs as she opened the front door. Perfume, baking, disinfectant always surrounded John and Sherlock's landlady. Molly breathed in the familiar, reassuring smells.

"How is he?"

Shaking her head, Mrs Hudson looked worried. "Still the same. Please try Molly, please try what you can. It's breaking my heart to see him like this."

"I will," Molly promised.

At the top of the stairs, she stopped. John was sat in Sherlock's chair again, mug of tea forgotten in his hand.

"Hey John," Molly's voice broke into the silence.

Blinking, John looked over at her, as though he hadn't realised he'd drifted off again. And then Molly could see that pain come back into his eyes. Because she was there.

"Hi, Molly. Tuesday again is it?" He hauled himself out of the chair, "Tea?"

Nodding, Molly followed him into the kitchen. Devoid of Sherlock's equipment the table didn't look right. That little feeling tugged at the bottom corner of Molly's heart again. That she knew and John didn't. That he was suffering and she could stop it.

"Now, where did you want to go out for lunch today?" Molly propped herself against the bench, trying not to notice the surfaces cleared of experiments and body parts.

"Not today, Molly," said John, voice cracking, "I can't. I …"

Taking the kettle from his shaking hand, Molly steered him to a chair. Sitting opposite him, she held his hands in hers. John took several deep breaths, trying to smile reassuringly at her.

"The nightmare again?" she quietly asked, squeezing his hands.

Nodding, John pulled his hands from hers, covering his face, tying to hide the tears.

"John… please, it's ok."

It was breaking her heart too, just watching him. John Watson, Captain, army doctor, was devastated at the loss of his best friend. Sherlock had saved him, that's what John had told her over their first lunch together; he'd come into John's life, shaken it up and gave him a reason to carry on.

"Ah, jesus..." John took his hands away and shook his head, "I'm so sorry Molly."

"No," she said firmly, "you never need to be sorry."

Hugging him to her, Molly held back her tears. And kept the dark, angry thoughts of Sherlock from her mind


	3. I believe in Greg Lestrade

Molly said nothing. Lestrade looked at her, really looked at her across the lab table. Quiet, unassuming Molly Hooper knew something, that much was obvious. That she wouldn't say what, that intrigued him.

"No-one else would talk about him, Molly. Not John, not Mrs Hudson, not his brother. Only you. Either you're coping really well. Or…"

"Or?"

Reluctantly turning from the microscope, Molly looked Greg in the eye, her face betraying only her distress at Sherlock's death.

"I'm a policeman, Molly, a detective. I may not be as brilliant or amazing or a bloody genius like Sherlock but I can figure things out. It is what I do."

"Greg…"

"I've seen the best and worst of Sherlock; him at his lowest and at his happiest, if you could describe it as that. Never, at any point in my knowing him, would I believe he'd be suicidal…"

The thought hung between them. Molly closed her eyes, drawing in her breath. Even Greg flinched. Sherlock had at least one damn good reason to live; all those unsolved crimes were out there, waiting for him.

"He would've had a reason, a bloody good, logical, meticulous reason to do this. Moriarty was trying to frame him, Sherlock said so, I believe him... oh, god Molly, I'm sorry..."

Turning away, Molly shook her head "No, no, it's fine… I can talk about Jim... I mean, I broke it off with him."

Mortified, Greg came round the table, stopping just in front of her. He reached out to touch her shoulder but hesitated. Withdrawing his hand, he gave her a sheepish smile. Patience.

"Molly, did Sherlock come to you for help?"

Stepping away from him, she started to rearrange her files, stacking them, restacking. "Greg… I can't… I can't say anything. I can't tell you why."

"You don't have to. You know it. I've figured it out. John…" Greg hesitated, seeing their friend's face in his mind, broken, closed down. "John's too devastated to think straight and see it."

"There are reasons," said Molly.

"And when he's ready, Sherlock will tell us," he said as he closed the distance between them, resting his hand next to hers on the table, "…though, you can answer one question for me."

"Just one more, Detective Inspector?"

"Would… would you come out for a drink with me?"

Molly smiled. And her smile was worth all the nights of worrying what a strong, smart, quiet pathologist would say if an aging, care-worn detective asked her out. Greg let his hand slip over hers.

"Yes."


End file.
